Interior Diagnosis
by Shade Embry
Summary: Scully's thoughts on Doggett and the partner he can't leave behind. Stark's unofficial introduction.


TITLE: Interior Diagnosis  
AUTHOR: Brittany "Thespis" Frederick  
E-MAIL: baltimorelt@yahoo.com  
RATING: PG for language  
CATEGORY: New character, character-centric, Scully POV  
SUMMARY: I told him no one gets there alone, and I now  
know who he got here with.  
DISCLAIMER: All nonoriginal content belongs to Chris  
Carter, 1013, and FOX. Agent Stark Patrick and all new  
content/ideas et cetera belong to me and I'm proud of  
it. Archive's okay, with my permission.  
  
  
If I could ride this light into forever  
You know this is not another waste of time  
All this holding on can't be wrong  
Just come back to me and I am not alone  
All this holding on can't be wrong...  
- Train  
  
I've spent eight years looking for things no one is  
supposed to see, but I'd be blind if I didn't see  
what's there.  
She's lounging in her chair, reading through an older  
copy of Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets by  
David Simon. It's true crime, the story of the  
Baltimore Police Department's homicide unit in 1988.  
She worked there for four years, seven years ago.  
Agent Doggett tells me she's read it a dozen times, if  
not more. I remember when I first met Special Agent  
Stark Patrick. She struck me as a unique person -  
incredibly genuine, honest, blunt, and with a  
voracious attitude that continues to amaze me. She  
always appears instantly approachable, with a comeback  
and a suggestion at hand. And yet, you can see it on  
her face, even now. Her eyes are somewhat distant, her  
dark hair neatly combed back, her posture  
professional. She appears to be the consummate  
professional. But I can sit here and ignore the  
mounting paperwork on my desk and watch her look over  
at him, and watch those eyes come alive.  
I keep telling myself "Scully, it's none of your  
business, these two are old partners - old friends -  
and of course they're going to be close." But this is  
a different kind of close, even for partners of four  
years in Criminal Investigations. This is  
baptism-by-fire, never-let-you-go,  
never-leave-your-side, running-at-four-a.m. kind of  
close. I wonder, sometimes, what must have happened in  
their past to make them this close, this strong. And I  
can only imagine that it must be a terrible event, a  
unique circumstance the likes of which I cannot  
comprehend. The likes of which I thought could only  
apply to myself and Mulder until I saw the same light  
flare up in his eyes when she first walked in here  
almost two years ago. Until I saw the mist forming in  
his eyes, even though he tried to hide it from me.  
John Doggett definitely cares for Stark Patrick and  
vice versa, to an astounding degree. And I smile,  
watching the signs, as I am now, because I know that I  
too feel the way they feel, and that they deserve it,  
and that they have earned it.  
But the dialogue is my biggest clue.  
"John," she says, putting down the book.  
His attention is immediately hers, with a curiosity  
in his eyes like that of a young child, a permanent  
interest that only comes from familiarity. "Yeah?" he  
says conversationally, turning in his chair.  
"Get this," she continues, a small smile forming on  
her face, "Landsman once passed Pellegrini off as a  
woman so they could pick up a female prisoner from  
county jail."  
I watch him laugh at the absurdity of one police  
detective passing off another as a woman, and he  
smiles easily. That alone baffles me. For the first  
few months of our partnership, I never saw that. He  
was business, grim and simple, no distractions, plenty  
of distance. Granted, I never made it easy for him - I  
still find myself apologizing for that long-forgotten  
water incident - but it makes me feel somewhat on the  
outside. They have their own language of signs and  
codes that seems to be at a glance. And I am reminded  
sometimes of how I don't speak it.  
He shakes his head, "Your predecessors did some crazy  
things, Stark."  
"Tell me about it," she quips, "I worked with  
Meldrick Lewis."  
Doggett's eyes flicker knowingly, as I suspect he  
knows very well all of her Baltimore ex-coworkers,  
former cases, old haunts and probably tax returns. On  
more than one occasion, they've come into work  
together, and on many occasions, they have stayed long  
after I can't stand another minute. She knows he  
knows, and he knows she knows that he knows, and so  
on. And I'm learning. Gradually, I am learning this  
dynamic that they built, even if I will never be a  
true part of it.  
I watch him study her for a moment after she's gone  
back to the book, taking in her renewed interest, her  
ability to simply relax and fade into the background,  
the peace and pause on her features. He is almost  
fascinated by her youth, her vitality, the dozen  
years' age difference between them. I'm tempted to  
throw something in his general direction or scream the  
phrase "coffee filters" and see if I still exist. He  
finally smiles to himself and turns back to his own  
desk. Ever since she arrived, it appears as if a great  
weight has been lifted off his shoulders.  
And I suppose it has.  
Her arrival - her sacrifice of an entire prosperous  
career, of the future of a young, smart, charismatic  
agent to follow her politically screwed partner to the  
realm of the FBI's Most Unwanted - says very much  
about her and about them. They are survivors, and not  
just survivors, survivors together. They have held on  
through these years. That she would follow him is a  
testament to that, to her loyalty, to their friendship  
and to all that they have and stand for. If the same  
thing were to happen to me and Mulder, I know that I  
would probably follow him. But it takes a real person  
to throw a way a whole life, an only chance. And  
apparently she has no qualms with being that person.  
Her watch beeps.  
She takes a moment and glances down. "It's time for  
lunch," she announces quietly, marks her page, and  
reaches for her backpack. Doggett and I both stand  
almost simultaneously. I, the intrepid researcher,  
take time to do some research of my subjects outside  
of base camp.   
  
*********  
  
They are, I realize as we sit together at lunch,  
almost a complete contradiction.  
He is six foot one, tall, with a strong build and  
imposing stare. She is five foot ten, more slender and  
Ryan Stiles-esque in her build, less imposing, more  
inviting. But they also have some of the same traits:  
the eyes that can say everything or nothing at all,  
the ability to flash an easy smile or conceal it just  
as quickly, the calm and reasoned approach. Age-wise,  
they would be extremely distant relatives, or by a  
long stretch of the imagination, he's old enough to be  
her father. The first moment either of them says  
anything, however, tells that these are two people,  
regardless of age and gender and physical difference  
of appearance and God knows what else, have truly come  
together.  
"The Gators just scored another touchdown," she says,  
clicking off the portable radio she's got tuned to  
some Florida station where she follows University of  
Florida college football.  
He glances sideways at her, a mischievious smirk on  
his face. "An actual touchdown or you want it to be a  
touchdown?"  
"Actual touchdown, John," she says, rolling her eyes  
before she starts an old argument that must be from  
another game. "It was a touchdown."  
"It was not a touchdown," he replies calmly. "He had  
the ball for two seconds."  
"More than that."  
"It wasn't any longer than two seconds."  
"It was more than two seconds," she insists, and the  
argument starts up.  
It's not really an argument. It's one of those  
casually warm-heated, mostly in jest and fun  
discussion-type arguments. I have never seen them  
actually argue. They will debate in sometimes  
repetitive, conversationally anal-retentive phrases,  
but I've never seen them fight. I know how A.D.  
Skinner must have felt when he had peace and quiet -  
Mulder and I fight all the time. These two keep the  
peace and we debate it; I suppose that's an even  
split.  
Two minutes later he concedes that the final score  
put the Gators over the Tennessee Volunteers and  
there's nothing he can do about it, but he still  
doesn't agree with her. As if they've forgotten me,  
they both glance at me.  
"Agent Scully?" he prompts me.  
"Wha .. what?" I'm startled I'm even being talked to.  
They don't do it intentionally, but nonetheless.  
"You okay?"  
"I'm fine, Agent Doggett."   
That's another clue. It's always 'Agent Doggett' and  
'Agent Scully.' Never 'John' and 'Dana' or even a  
last-name basis. I suppose we could make it that way,  
but we don't. Even with me and Mulder, it's a  
last-name basis. But between the two of them, they are  
'John' and 'Stark,' on a casually first-name basis  
that comes with years of an enduring, close friendship  
both inside and outside the Hoover Building. I stir my  
iced tea one more time, glance out the window and  
wonder how much credit to give to the rumors that the  
two of them are more than friends.  
The signs are there, I'll admit.  
But the principal rule of research is to look for  
what never lies: the facts.  
  
  
  
It's in watching them that I think I, Dana Scully,  
medical doctor, FBI Agent, mother and would-be  
obsessive Bureau social scientist, have finally lost  
my mind.  
That I'd even entertain thoughts that the two people  
sitting across from me are doing more than working  
together and watching NASCAR on Saturdays is entirely  
not me. I've spent eight years of my life fighting the  
rumors that Mulder and I are more than friends (and  
sometimes I don't even know the answer), and yet first  
chance I get, I'm sitting here doing exactly what was  
done to me. I'm sure I'm not the first person to  
suspect it, but I feel like a hypocrite. And I'm sure  
Mulder would be laughing if he knew.  
Oh, that's what I want to think about.  
"Hey, is it Thursday, or Friday?" she asks.  
"It's Friday," he supplies easily.  
"You know, I could have sworn it was Thursday," she  
says, almost amused with herself. Doggett's right. I'm  
surprised she remembers her own birthday. But in terms  
of cases, she's got a mind that everyone in the Bureau  
should be jealous of (and some are).   
"What are you doing with your weekend, Agent Scully?"  
"Well..." I smile almost sheepishly. Like I have a  
choice with motherhood on my plate. "I figured I'd  
just stay home and rent a movie or something like  
that. What about you?"  
"I think the Daytona 500's this weekend," she says,  
looking to him for confirmation. He nods. As usual,  
they'll probably be watching the race together. "But  
other than that, I don't really know. Like I have a  
life, right?"  
No, she doesn't. The last vacation day she took, we  
had to force it on her. And then she came in after  
lunch.  
So where was I? Oh, yes, the illustrious question of  
whether Agents Doggett and Patrick are more than  
friends. Lots of people have said so, taking how his  
eyes light up when she enters a room and vice versa  
and how they often end up leaving together as  
evidence. Do I believe it? I don't know. They're  
obviously very close and have built a very strong  
relationship. But that doesn't mean that they're  
involved. I don't believe that they'd try that. I  
don't see Agent Doggett mixing business and pleasure.  
I wouldn't see that from Stark. She has a strong  
belief in the system, in the rules (even as she bends  
them), in good and evil. I don't see her doing  
something the Bureau would fillet them both for.  
But who was the first person I called when I found  
out he'd gone missing with Agent Harrison?  
Okay, it was Mulder, but after that, I called her.  
Reports vary as to what actually happened that day.  
She, Mulder, Doggett and Harrison all offer various  
versions of how Mulder and Stark got him out of there.  
The report is, as usual, black and white enough to  
pass Kersh's tests, but they know something else.  
They're not hiding it, they just don't know how to  
explain it. My, doesn't that sound familiar?  
I asked Mulder, and he said she seemed to be acting  
on instruction, as if she knew where he was. He said  
that she had said something about being able to hear  
him telepathically. Yet they've never been able to  
duplicate it. This doesn't mean I don't believe that  
stress and fear and emotion could have caused it, even  
if I've tested them for the possibility. And looking  
at them, I wouldn't doubt it if they were able to read  
each other's minds. There's just something in their  
eyes that tells me they know each other deeper than I  
ever will know them.  
I've read his file, and I've read hers, too. We  
graduated from the same university, albeit years  
apart. She has her degree in Administration of  
Justice. She spent four years with Baltimore City  
homicide. And then she came here. Her whole life, it  
seems, has been transitioning to something else, from  
college to the police academy to the National Academy  
to the Bureau, from Criminal Investigations to the  
X-Files. The one constant within the last decade of  
her life has been Agent Doggett. She seems to be  
always in motion, always involved in change, and yet  
he is always there.  
One of Mulder's favorite anecdotes is the time he and  
Agent Doggett had lunch in an attempt of Mulder's to  
try to figure out exactly what was up with the two of  
them.  
"You like her, don't you?" he'd said of Agent  
Patrick.  
"Of course I like her," Doggett had deadpanned.  
"She's my partner, she's my best friend, she blew up  
her own career to come back to me."  
Mulder had scrambled to say something that would get  
results. He paused.  
"She's not half bad to look at."  
Doggett had turned on him with a defensive stare and  
firmly told him, "Touch her and you die."  
Needless to say, no further explanation was  
necessary.  
As defensive as he is of her, she is more so of their  
partnership. She has followed him into hell and back  
willingly, even when he didn't want her to risk  
herself. When he left for the Galpex-Orpheus, she  
followed him and then proceeded to flay him about  
leaving her (in an anger that lasted all of thirty  
seconds according to Mulder). I was surprised to hear  
her voice on the other end of that radio, but then I  
should have expected it. Anyone who comes at their  
partner's two a.m. phone call will follow him  
anywhere.  
Even more interesting to me is the one date she went  
on almost a year ago. Nothing happened, and it's the  
only date she's ever been on since she joined the  
Bureau, she admits. But watching him that night, after  
she'd left, sit there almost dead, somewhat sullen,  
out of it entirely, was telling. She had left him to  
be with another man he didn't know, in a place he  
didn't know, and something could happen to her and he  
wouldn't know it. She had done so reluctantly, but she  
had done so, and I could see the conflict in his eyes.  
He wanted to keep her heart from being broken, he  
wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to be safe. And  
he didn't know how he was going to do it. Although the  
event was of no consequence, what I saw in him that  
night was certainly worth remembering.  
A few days into her return - December 12 - there was  
no uncertainty in his voice, no strategizing, no  
updates on what had happened while they were apart, no  
"are you sure you know what you're doing?"  
conversations as there had been when she had walked  
into the office, introduced herself to me and  
proceeded to open one of her current case files. It  
was as if Doggett had seen, when he came into the  
office that morning to see her at the desk I'd  
requisitioned for her, changing one of her case names  
on her white board from red to black, that the secret  
hope he had carried inside of him since Kersh had torn  
them apart was no longer secret:  
She was never leaving him again.  
Mulder said it best, perhaps: she is his past, and I  
am his future. But I can't help but know that she is  
his future, too. And that if they get what they  
deserve, what is best for them, she'll be his future  
for a long time to come.  
I told him no one gets there alone, and I now know  
who he got here with.  
"We're going to be late," I remind them almost  
sheepishly. Lunch is almost over.  
They don't appear to be surprised.   
We head for the car, crossing the parking lot until  
we find where he parked it. She offers me the  
passenger seat without saying a word, and I buckle  
myself in. I pause when I realize neither of them is  
following me, and glance up. He's standing there with  
the driver's side door open, and I follow his glance  
to where she's standing with one hand on the extended  
back seat door and another on the radio earpiece.  
After a second, she looks at him and smiles.  
Touchdown.  
He smiles, conceding the argument before it begins.  
In the silence there is the distinct presence of  
peace.   
  
********  
  
If this were a medical condition which required a  
medical perspective, I wouldn't know what to call it.  
Using my would-be social scientist skills, however, I  
can only offer this diagnosis from the inside:  
They are meant for each other.  
Take that however you want - to mean that they are  
two halves of one whole, to mean that they are the  
perfect partners, to mean that they are best friends,  
to mean that they'll get married and live in a  
white-picket-fence neighborhood that would make Ozzie  
and Harriet sick from the sugar rush - but I know that  
it is the honest truth.   
I'll always continue to watch them, watch their signs  
and their ability to speak in code and how they can  
communicate with simply a glance, watch the easy smile  
that comes to his face when she speaks, watch the  
light in their eyes, and to continue my research from  
base camp, from the perspective of honest amazement at  
how two people from two different walks of life can  
come together by chance and create an unrivaled  
miracle.   
I know that we deceive, inveigle, and obfuscate,  
hiding the truth from ourselves.  
But Agent Doggett and Agent Patrick have found their  
truth.  
They find it every day, in every case, in every  
closure, in every file, in every experience, in every  
step of the way, in every word. They find it in each  
other.  
  
END  
  
Thanks to all who sent feedback ... I hope you had  
half as much fun reading as I did writing, because  
that means I had twice as much fun writing as you did  
reading :)  
  
  
=====  
"Oh, for God's sake, please be somebody else."  
- Lewis Black  
Natalie: Two guys have ascended 5 miles into the sky. They walked up a wall of ice and are preparing to knock on the door of heaven itself. There's really no end to what we can do. You know what the trick is?   
Dan: What?   
Natalie: Get in the game!   
- "The Quality of Mercy at 29K", "Sports Night" 


End file.
